


Let The Right One In

by ClementineStarling



Category: Only Lovers Left Alive (2013)
Genre: M/M, PWP, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-23
Updated: 2014-01-23
Packaged: 2018-01-09 19:36:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1149978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <span class="small">Takes place more or less immediately before the film, so I guess you can consider the story spoiler-free: </span>
</p><p>Against all better judgment the vampire Adam (Tom Hiddleston) has formed an attachment with music-geek Ian (Anton Yelchin) who supplies him with all kinds of rarities. One night the unexpected happens and they venture beyond the usual boundaries of friendly business…</p><p>
  <span class="small">Surprisingly fluffy by my usual standards. Which means: without doubt consensual for a change. Have fun… :) </span>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let The Right One In

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for this is not safer sex… 
> 
> Also for those who are sensitive to such stuff: there are references to earlier killings, nothing graphic but maybe off-putting for some people?!
> 
> In case you wonder: "Zombie" is a word actually used by the vampires of the film as a term for humans. 
> 
> Credit for the title goes to the eponymous  
> \- [song by the White Hills](%E2%80%9D) and  
> \- Swedish vampire book/film of 2004/2008 which is also a reference to a Morrissey song. :)

He should know better, old as he is. Should know better than to consort with a _Zombie_. No good will come of it. Never has. If Eve were here, she’d name dates and places as substantiation. But she isn’t and he simply can’t help himself. He’s so lonely and Ian is just too cute: There is still wonder in his eyes, curiosity and the same enthusiasm he himself has tried to keep alive for so long _._ Oh precious mortals. Not all of them are foolish and vain.

When Ian talks about music, Adam sees himself in the kid, centuries back, and when he looks at him, with his puppy dog eyes, all proud of his latest discovery, Adam is lost for words. He has tried to keep him at a distance but it doesn’t work. Ian always comes back, with a new find, another project, and each time he lets him in, regardless of the arguments against it.  After a while Adam realises that he looks forward to Ian’s visits, that actually they are what keeps him sane. So, against better judgment, he has decided to give him a car, under the pretence that Ian’s needs a proper ride for his errands of course, and the delight Ian takes in it warms his cold heart.

"Oh thank you, Adam!“ Ian says and does something, Adam has not quite foreseen, blinded as he is by his loneliness: He throws his arms around him and hugs him, pressing himself up against the older man, all lean muscle and heartbeat and life. Adam’s senses go haywire at the touch of another being, at the smell of him, blood and weed and excitement. He buries his nose in Ian’s hair and for one moment just inhales the intoxicating blend of mortality. He must have held on too tight, because after a while Ian wriggles out of the embrace and says something like "Dude…“

But then he looks at him, looks into Adam’s all too bright eyes and realisation dawns.

 _Oh_ , he forms with his lips and then something happens, Adam has not counted on either. Ian just shrugs and draws closer again. His hands rise up and clutch a handful of Adam’s shaggy mane and he pulls him down into a kiss. Soft lips. Breath, warm as a night in Tangier. Tentative tongue. A slight scratch of beard.

Automatically Adam’s fingers find their way into Ian’s hair and he kisses him back, without restraint, drinking the innocence from his mouth like a starving man. He kisses the kid until Ian’s breath becomes uneven and he positively melts against his chest, groaning, reduced to nerves and instincts and needs. Adam can smell the arousal on him, sharp and sweet and alluring.

Struggling for countenance, Adam pulls back. He cannot allow himself to lose control like this. _What has he been thinking?!_

"Wow, man,“ Ian breathes, "That was awesome.“ His eyes are glazed with lust, his lips swollen and red from the kiss.

_Oh dear goddess, how can he possibly resist?_

Adam averts his gaze. He can feel his self-control slipping though. It’s been too long and this is too good to be walking away from it. _You must go_ , he wants to say. _Leave now and never come back._ But he doesn’t. He can’t. He just stands there, torn between reason and desire. 

"You are _so_ beautiful,“ Ian says, so adorable in his admiration and honesty, Adam is inclined not to care about what happens next. Just press him up against the next wall and fuck him senseless. He cannot do that of course. It would not be wise. Not wise at all…

Ian, oblivious to his hesitation, relieves him of the decision by loosening the belt of his bathrobe; the gown falls open, baring him to Ian’s eager eyes, defined muscle and evident hunger. Adam observes how the mortal licks his lips in anticipation and he knows that it’s too late to turn back, for both of them.

"Take off your clothes,“ Adam says as he steps backwards, sinking down on the sofa, and arms comfortably spread on the back rest, his nakedness framed by the shabby robe, he waits, a picture of dusty decadence.

With a sheepish grin Ian does what he’s asked, sheds the jacket and his t-shirt. He has the wiry body of a boy, delicate in comparison to Adam’s elegant muscle.

"Gorgeous,“ Adams says. "The trousers, too.“

Ian blushes a little, but obediently gets out of his boots and unbuttons his jeans. He slides them down along with his boxers until they pool around his ankles. He is indeed gorgeous, perfectly proportioned. Delicious how the flush warms up his pale skin. Adam can hear the blood coursing through his veins and he imagines how it might feel to lick every inch of this fragile surface, sweep his tongue over the wafer-thin shell that separates him from the flesh beneath.

He has the senses to discard such intimacies though, too alluring is the drum of Ian’s heart. "Bring the oil,“ He says instead, pointing at a bottle of grease he uses for his gadgets and sometimes the door hinges. He knows how cold he sounds, how crude, but he also senses how this excites Ian even more. So be it then.

Adam takes the bottle out of Ian’s hands, placing it on the sofa next to him. He guides the kid to straddle his lap before dragging him down into another open-mouthed kiss, eliciting the sweetest sounds from his lips: moans and sighs and little yelps. Almost like playing an instrument. Adam’s hands travel over his arms, back, ribs, thighs, ever exploring, and Ian just holds on for dear life, clutching at Adam’s shoulders and neck, completely lost in sensations. 

It’s strange how you forget how arousal feels, like an itch that needs to be scratched but somehow you cannot find the right spot and then you grow impatient, irritable. Adam is used to the dull, tiresome ache of thirst but this so much more pressing. The violent thrust of his tongue, the hard line of lips is all he allows himself for now, regardless the avid throb of his cock. He’s learnt to control himself, to cherish these frail, dainty humans, even if they so rarely live up to his expectations. So he does not give in to his instincts, does not tear Ian apart like a bug, au contraire, he’s set his mind on sharing the pleasure, just like he’d love to share his music.

He takes it slow – apart from the kiss. The soothing rub of his palms against Ian’s lower back, the low purr in his throat. Only when he is convinced that the kid is totally at ease with him, his hand glides to the front, over hard stomach muscle, until his fingers find their goal and wrap themselves around it and Ian gasps into Adam’s mouth, a whiney and mewling sound that makes the vampire’s lips curl into a smug smile. Few things delight him more than accomplished proficiency. 

The tune of love is the oldest of all and Adam has mastered it perfectly. He knows exactly how to strike the right cord, where to touch and what rhythm to choose. He understands the variations and the improvisations, the repetitions and the tempi of course: adagio, moderato, allegro.... Passion may follow the same rules as composing and also defy them, depending on what you want to achieve. Dissonance can be more exciting than harmony, surprise more elating than flow.

He’s nearly forgotten what this is all about, when Ian surprises him by returning the favour. Hands enclose his cock, tugging and pulling, and the pleasure hits him like a flash. Adam is old and his body has hardened with time like carbon indurates under pressure; sometimes he wonders whether one day he eventually might turn into stone. But now he is jerked awake like Frankenstein’s monster; his nerves are on fire, sparks of electricity run down his spine and the tedious itch in his groin has turned into a burning sensation. Adam feels the stretch of fangs and it takes every ounce, every crumb of self-control not to claw and bite at the willing flesh, not to claim it without further ado. He doesn’t want to hurt him. Oh, how he wants to hurt him!

 _Evil is simply selfishness_ , Eve says in his head, smiling. She has always been the patient one.

Adam’s hands grope for the lube, blindly, as  he tries to calm down, tries to sync his breathing to the rhythm of Ian’s hands and the beat of Ian’s heart. His fingers close around the bottle and he never stops kissing while he’s fumbling with the lid. It actually takes his mind of things a bit, enough to suppress his predacious instincts. Finally he succeeds in unscrewing the lid and sticky fluid splashes over his hand. When he moves a little, spreading his thighs so he can reach around Ian, the kid shivers in his arms.

"Are you alright?“ Adam asks.

Ian nods, breathing heavy and ragged.

"Yes,“ he whispers into Adam’s ear. His voice is brittle with desire but his fist is still moving on Adam, at a mesmerising pace. Just the right amount of pressure. It’s hard to concentrate. Adam’s fingers draw slick circles around the ring of muscles, in a meditation of fragility and destruction. When he feels Ian relaxing, he nudges one finger against the opening, barely breaching. He keeps this up for a while, rubbing and soothing at first, then pushing and stretching, gently, ever so gently. He goes back for the oil, again and a third time, until he’s properly convinced, Ian is ready.

The sounds spilling from the kid’s mouth should be proof enough though; moans and whimpers have turned into begs and pleas under his touch and the rhythm of his mouth and hand has become sloppy. One last splash of oil for himself and Adam tenderly pushes aside Ian’s hand, wrapping his own fingers around his cock.

He shifts again and putting his free arm around Ian’s waist he positions himself. Adam observes the expression that twists the kids face as he slowly, so very slowly enters his body: how he bites his lips and the eyes squeeze shut in a grimace of pleasure. Enticing already but the tight heat around him is even better. Breath-takingly good. He wonders why he has abstained from this for so long, it is, after all, rapture and it is bliss.

 _Enjoy yourself, darling_ , Eve whispers and Adam moves, pushing upwards, nails digging into Ian’s hips, while he holds him steady, and Ian’s hands are tangled in his hair and his blood is babbling within him like a brook and Adam tries not to think about it. He just thrusts into Ian at a lazy, steady pace and confines himself to suck the moans from his lips. 

It’s desire not love, but even within sheer need there is tenderness and care, always, and Adam attempts to focus on this affectionate warmth; he likes Ian, he does not want to drink him, not really. Yet nature demands her rights; not in a long time, not even when feeding, he’s been this close to his animal side. He can sense the darkness of days he does not want to remember, not now, not ever. It bubbles and boils, barely covered by the veil of time, a paper-thin layer, separating moral being from rogue beast. He struggles not to tear it to shreds, not to sink fangs into his prey, like he used to so many years ago, when he knew no restraints and fucking was feeding was killing was joy.

But too late, the sensations wake memories that come flooding in like the tide, a surge of blood and gore and death and agony but also passion and lust. He travels back in time, to Venice and London, St. Petersburg and Mumbai, Cairo and Istanbul, decades blur into centuries. They are men and women and sometimes neither or both, all so beautiful in their own right and everywhere, everywhen life runs through his hands like sand through an hourglass. Eyes go dark and skin pale yet the hunger remains ravenous, a black hole in his belly.

He cannot go on like this, the risk is too high. He might lose control and then…

Then it hits him, the solution.

"Swap,“ he says and before Ian can even properly understand, he’s been shoved from Adam’s lap as the vampire gets to his feet and starts to fumble with the oil bottle again. He shakes off his dressing gown and without further preliminaries bends over, one arm braced against the back rest of the sofa, legs spread and he pushes two oil-slick fingers into himself. His supernatural body yields only too easily and he hears Ian’s sharp intake of breath at the sight of his perfectly shaped ass and the fingers buried within.

They feel great but a cock will be even better.

"Come on, Ian, fuck me,“ he says, voice rough now, and Ian leans into him, cautiously, warm hand running over his sides.

"No need to worry, I won’t break. Just get on with it.“

And Ian complies. 

For a moment it’s nearly impossible to bear, that long forgotten sensation of being stretched and filled and claimed. It takes his mind of destruction and blood and keeping control, it’s just him now and his body and how it adapts to the penetration. His head slumps against the backrest of the sofa, jaw falling open in a silent moan, his hands suddenly useless.

Ian whispers something unintelligible into his ear, soothing and sweet, and he reaches forward to grab him and ever so gently runs his fingers over his cock, up and down, mirroring the tentative rhythm of his thrusts. He appears cautious though not inexperienced and through the haze of pleasure Adam wonders what else he might have missed about the kid. Meanwhile Ian changes his angle a bit and hits just the right spot, the place that makes this better than any blood high possibly could. All the nerves of his body seem to cluster in his guts, sizzling, sparking. His bones are melting and his knees weaken and his head is light, so light.

"Harder,“ Adam says and Ian’s hand buries itself in his hair and yanks his head back.

"Like this?“ he hisses and Adam’s laughs because it is actually funny and he could squash this tiny mortal like a fly and he also groans because all of a sudden, Ian is not gentle anymore; the roots of his hair hurt under the violent clutch of his fist and fingernails are clawing at his back and Ian drives into him with a fervour that resembles anger and spite. In short he does what he’s been asked to and hell, he excels in it!

With increased force Ian’s body slams into his, so hard the dusky pink sofa squeaks under their combined weight. Oddly enough this heaviness of another body against his relieves Adam from the constant struggle against his blood lust. It allows him to let go, to cease worrying. He’s not in charge anymore and that multiplies every sensation a thousand fold: the caress of hair on his skin, the warmth of breath against his back, the rough edge of nails, the velvet of the sofa under his arms, but with every tight pull and sharp thrust the lines of perception blur until all that remains are sparks dancing down neural pathways, little jolts in the pleasure centre of his brain. His breath comes in gasps, the approaching orgasm already trembling in his thighs. But then it’s Ian’s rhythm that falters, hips bucking; his hand loosens around Adam’s cock and he is coming, spurting his white, living seed into him in violent shudders.

Adam hovers on the brink of release, unwilling to tip over, it’s too good to rush it now. And so he waits, patiently, for the kid’s crisis to pass and the shivers to subside, his cock twitching in imitation of Ian’s release. When the kid finally goes still and slack against his back, Adam turns around and catches him in his arms. They slump on the couch and Adam holds Ian tight marvelling at the perfection of this human being, smelling his sweat, drinking in his fulfilment. All the while he strokes himself. Languid movement of his hand, fingers curled lightly around the swollen flesh, golden arousal spilling to every last nook and cranny of his being.

It takes a moment until Ian catches up and leans down to suck him into warm and wet heat, his mouth luscious as oblivion. The pleasure twists and turns in Adam’s belly, a poisonous snake, only half tamed by the stroke of tongue. It wants to push further, explore deeper but he does not allow the jerk of hips or the thrust of his cock. Not long now. The muscles and tendons in his thighs vibrate like strings, sensations tingling in waves from his groin, like sound fills an instrument. So intense, he cannot feel it anymore, his skin goes numb, his head empty, there is nothing but the throb between his legs, keen and fervid. Just before he’s about to come, he pulls back from Ian’s mouth, well aware that his seed is like venom, and it’s this last friction of skin on skin that topples him over and he spends himself all over Ian’s chest, painting it like canvas.

Tension dissipates into fatigue almost immediately. Sticky and breathless they collapse on the sofa, a tangle of limbs and hair and serenity, floating on afterglow and music, complacent, satisfied. They don’t talk, they only listen. To Adam’s music, to the creak of the old house, to the grass in the garden, to the leaves on the trees, to the stars in the sky. The tune of the night, fading out. All too soon the morning comes crawling out over Detroit and dim light begins to filter through the thick curtains. And as the darkness leaves it’s taking its spell with it.

"It’s getting light,“ Adam says, tiredness a slur in his voice.

Ian looks at him, clearly reluctant to understand the implication of the words. Adams sees it dawning in his grey eyes like the new day and he feels the hurt setting in, sharp like his own pain. But he cannot allow himself another weakness; he cannot try his luck again. „You’ve got to go. I have to sleep,“ Adam says because offering a spot on this sofa would be even crueler. 

Ian nods and then Adam sees the glimmer of hope flash over his face, like the first ray of light over the horizon, and he can’t bring himself to crush that too, even when he knows that this hope is as vain as his longing to see the sun again. If anything he learned tonight, it’s that he is – irrevocably – a predator and no amount of civilisation can tame his needs. He watches as Ian scrambles into his jeans and gathers his remaining clothes from the dusty floor, he observes the flex of muscles, the contraction of tendons, the tightening of skin and he feels the familiar stir and the well-known craving and that proves, better than any reasoning could, that he’s got no choice in this matter.

"Thank you,“ Ian says, simply, and he kisses him one last time, tenderly, a fleeting brush of lips and then he’s gone.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I liked the film a lot, not only because I adore Tilda Swinton and Tom Hiddleston is obviously quite cute too, but also because it’s a giant love story to having time and money and doing whatever you please, reading books, building gadgets, listening to music, making music, indulging yourself in antisocial tendencies, even going outside and getting food is a nuisance. I mean, who can't relate to that?! ;)  
> The film has got its flaws though – the orientalist depiction of Tangier for example, the whiteness of the cast and the blatant hetero-romanticism. The relationship between “Adam and Eve” is certainly quite liberal and loving but it lacked implications of other partners; people as old and open minded as these two would certainly not bother with modern conceptions of identities, so hell, why not screw around a little. So this is my little contribution to this issue. :)
> 
> I had - perhaps notably? - some difficulties in deciding on top and bottom-roles – in the beginning I was kind of into the obvious: Adam is stronger, taller, older so he’s got to fuck Ian, but then, halfway through, this picture of reversed roles popped into my head and it made so much sense, that I considered writing alternatives like in two chapters or something. But since writing porn is already such an ordeal for me I could not bring myself to really do it twice in one story. So the ideas merged and then the chain of events twisted again under my very fingers and that’s what you got now. I hope you liked it anyway. If so, consider leaving some feedback, I’m always pleased as Punch when I get a comment and Kudos is also very much appreciated.


End file.
